


Branding Mark

by Jackfruit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Branding, Contest Entry, Dramatic Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marking, Snogging, Torture, no smut but the author sure does get close, you know im not surprised that tag exists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackfruit/pseuds/Jackfruit
Summary: “Do you know what this is?” Dagon asked.“The leviathan cross?” Crowley said weakly.“Well, yes,” she sighed, but I meant the whole thing-” she gestured to the rod.“Er…”An exasperated sigh. “This,” she said slowly, “is a branding iron. Don’t know whose idea it was, but they convinced humans to use it to mark objects and livestock. Property.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 81
Collections: My Lot Don't Send Rude Notes





	Branding Mark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> Entry for Whiteley Foster's fic contest! Check out the image this fic is based on here: https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the
> 
> I hope you enjoy! I haven't actually written much recently so it was nice to do something like this <3\. Also, catch me throwing this into the ring like a day and a half before the deadline.

Throughout history, Crowley had woken up in a variety of places and positions. Anything from getting sloppy drunk and pulled into bed with nobles, to pissing off the wrong group of supposedly powerful humans and finding himself consequently in a sack at the bottom of the ocean. So, while waking up tied to a chair was not necessarily the most comfortable of positions, it wasn’t really anything he wasn’t used to. 

The throbbing headache wasn’t anything new, either.

With a pained groan, Crowley lifted his head and looked around the dark and damp corners of what appeared to be a cell. A rather familiar cell, if he was being honest…

“Good morning, Crowley. Welcome back to the world,” a voice said. It was a voice that rang familiar, but was not one he knew well. There was actually one voice he could say fit that category; one voice, like a river, that eroded a canyon in his mind and heart. Aziraphale wasn’t here, though. His presence was a flood to the senses, quenching his thirst, but threatening to drown him. Having just left his presence mere hours ago, one would think his thirst would be satisfied... 

So no, the voice did not belong to Aziraphale. Instead the being that stood before him was...Dagon?

“Erm, Lord Dagon? May I ask what you’re doing here, on earth?” He tried to sound polite despite the growing pain behind his eyes. What he really wanted to ask was why he was here of all places, tied to a chair. 

“Well,” said Dagon, grinning with sharp eel teeth, “ever since I’ve been promoted to Lord of the Files I have been sorely lacking in participation when it comes to dirty work. And I loathe my job, but where’s the fun in all paperwork and no torture?”

Crowley’s throat somehow got even drier, “Torture, huh?”

“Yes!” Dagon looked positively thrilled. That made one of them. She stepped closer to Crowley and slowly began to circle him. Satan, that was creepy. He suddenly felt very self-conscious of all the times he’d circled Aziraphale in the same fashion. At least he had an excuse, though, what with all the snakey bits. Then again, snakes and eels did look pretty similar. He didn’t know much about eels though, so maybe…

Crowley let out a shriek as Dagon grabbed his carefully coiffed hair in one taloned hand and yanked. Hard.

In principle, Crowley had nothing against hair pulling. On the contrary, he imagined that with the right person (or angel) it would be quite pleasant. This, however, was not that. This was hard enough that Crowley’s eyes began to water. Add the hairs straining against his scalp, which was already throbbing painfully, might he add; it was enough to become rather unpleasant. Plus, Dagon wasn’t exactly his type, so this was rather unsexy on top of all the aching pain.

A claw trailed up his throat, feather-light but dangerous. It stopped- pressed down on his jugular just hard enough to hurt without drawing blood. “Do you know why we’re here, Crowley?” Her voice was a deadly knife of quiet. Crowley tried to swallow and her grip tightened in his hair.

“N-”

“Oh, come now,” she cooed without sympathy. She removed the pointed claw from his throat, then used the hand in his hair to forcefully twist his head, “look around you. Where are we?”

It hit Crowley rather suddenly, why he recognized the place. Sure, he’d been in plenty of human prisons but this one was one he’d seen only a few hours earlier. This was the Bastille.

Crowley felt a type of cold fear reserved specifically for when a certain fussy angel had gotten himself into a dangerous situation. If he was here, and if Dagon was here with a bloody painful hold on his hair, that could mean only one thing.

They knew what he’d done.

They knew about Aziraphale.

Despite this, Crowley wasn’t going down without a fight. He never did, but especially not when it came to Aziraphale.

“Not sure what you’re talking about,” Crowley slipped into his usual ‘cool’ persona, the one that fooled almost no one except the schmucks in Hell. Dagon may not be a schmuck, but he hoped that her exposure to the particular brand of stupidity that was the demons of Hell would be enough to fool her. “It’s a cell. On earth, if I had to hazard a guess. Not much sunlight in Hell.”

Another sharp tug at his hair, then she let go. “Try again.”

“Uh…” Crowley fell quiet. The kind of quiet that might befall a guilty child. Dagon noticed, and proceeded to backhand him across the face. Crowley grunted, but continued his silent protest.

“This cell,” Dagon walked over to stand in front of the window. The sunlight that had made Aziraphale seem radiant made Dagon seem sickly. Her skin was thin, the color of the paperwork she often worked with. Her hair was greasy and her face covered in a silvery spattering of scales that glinted dully like the blade of a bloodied sword. “You released a prisoner from here only earlier today, isn’t that right?”

“Only a bit of fun,” Crowley said, a lie quickly forming in his head, “thought it’d be funny to see a noble run free while an executioner lost his own head.”

“Yes, yes, very dastardly in theory,” Dagon snapped. She drew up a metal rod with a demonic miracle and approached Crowley once more. 

“The problem with that,” she hit him as hard as she could in the shoulder with the rod, causing Crowley to cry out. “The problem,” another hit, this time to his ribs. Crowley doubled over as he felt a couple crack. 

“The problem is that you rescued a BLOODY ANGEL!” She roared, knocking him upside the head. Crowley almost blacked out again. It didn’t help that she had a hand in his hair once more, making him meet her eyes. She breathed heavily, breath smelling like rotting, dead fish. 

“You see, Crowley,” she growled, “it doesn’t matter to Hell that you meant to rescue a human and saved an angel instead. What matters to Hell is that you saved an angel.” She yanked her hand free from his hair, taking a clump of copper with her. She tossed it to the ground in disgust. Despite the unpleasant sting, Crowley was relieved. They thought it was an accident- that meant Aziraphale was safe. At least for now.

“Helping the enemy...one might question your loyalty, serpent.”

“I- I am loyal!” Crowley gasped out as she stomped on his foot. “I promise! Have you seen my reports recently? I started this bloody revolution business and everything,” Satan, he hoped it was his side that took credit for it. Otherwise he wouldn’t be helping his ‘totally-not-a-traitor’ case.

“Your reports don’t matter, your actions do,” she tore open the top of his shirt, then decided to whack him in the ribs again. This time, Crowley coughed up blood and gagged as he fell forward heavily. If not for the bindings, he’d probably tip right out of the chair.

“Lucky for you, this is your first serious offense,” she said, a sneer curling onto her cracked lips, “that being said, you’re getting off easy.”

‘This is easy?’ Crowley knew better than to ask. He was still trying to breathe properly through the whole broken ribs thing. He considered trying to heal himself, but from what he heard from other demons, that would just make things worse.

The rod suddenly melted at the tip, shifting and swirling until it produced a very specific shape at one end. It remained glowing hot red.

“Do you know what this is?” Dagon asked.

“The leviathan cross?” Crowley said weakly.

“Well, yes,” she sighed, but I meant the whole thing-” she gestured to the rod.

“Er…”

An exasperated sigh. “This,” she said slowly, “is a branding iron. Don’t know whose idea it was, but they convinced humans to use it to mark objects and livestock. Property.” She grinned sadistically and Crowley felt his face fall before he could help it. 

“Oh...no,” he whispered, unable to even feign bravery at this point.

“Oh yes,” Dagon practically cackled with glee. She clearly took great delight in seeing Crowley instinctively cower back against the chair as much as he could as she brought the brand closer to him. “You, demon Crowley, belong to Hell and Hell alone.” The branding iron hovered just above the skin on his chest- over where his heart would be if he were human. He could feel the hellish burn it radiated and knew instantly: this would not be a temporary mark.

“Come- come on now, it was a mistake! We shouldn’t- it was my first offense!”

“Yes,” Dagon smirked, “normally I’d torture you much more first.” With that, she slowly pressed the brand into his skin.

Crowley let out an inhuman scream, the building around them seeming to shake with its power. He writhed helplessly against his bonds as the brand dug deep into the skin. Everything fell away, and all he could feel was the burning agony of it. In his desperate, primal urge to escape his wings burst into existence on the mortal plane, flapping wildly like a trapped bird’s might. The heart in his human cooperation sped up its beating. Crowley swore if Dagon dug the blessed thing in any harder it would actually sear into his heart as well.

“All of you belongs to Hell,” Dagon repeated, “your thoughts, your feelings, your ideas, all of it. Every bit is for Hell, and for our master”

Finally, after what felt like a short eternity, the brand was pulled from the tender flesh and Crowley sobbed pitifully. Dagon scoffed.

“Oh come now, it can’t have been that bad,” she waved a hand and the bonds fell away from Crowley’s hands. He fell forward, wings flopping pathetically on either side of him. The flesh on his chest ached and throbbed, and his broken ribs also added their (rather unwelcome) protest to the new position. He pushed himself up onto his shaky hands, only for Dagon’s boot to land on his back, between his wings, and shove him back onto the dirty ground.

“This is where you belong, Crawly” Dagon said, pressing her boot in harder. “Squirming at the feet of those superior to you. Remember that.” Her boot lifted, and just like that, Crowley was alone. 

With pained, ragged breaths he pushed himself up into a sitting position and wrapped his arms gently around his aching torso. Slowly, he dragged himself over to a dirty bucket of water in the corner of the cell and leaned over it to examine the damage.

There it was. Skin blistered, looking a bit like charcoal. Felt like it, too. Crowley swallowed and traced the mark with a shaking finger. A mark of Hell he could never get rid of. 

He wanted to cry, to scream, to curse someone- anyone- for what had just been done to him. He felt disgusted, and ashamed, and- and…

He quickly rebuttoned his shirt, ignoring how the scratchy fabric irritated the new mark. With a snap of his fingers, all his other wounds healed themselves instantly, but not the mark. Never the mark.

He laid down on the disgusting cell floor and then and there promised himself that he would never let Hell do something like this to him again. He’d rather die fighting them then just sit and let them claim him like a piece of property.

He propped himself up on his elbows, eyes going wide as an idea hit him. It was fantastic- it was brilliant. He just would need to call in a simple favour...

\---

Aziraphale said no.

Of all the things Crowley had expected, Aziraphale flat out declining to give him the holy water was not on the satan blessed list.

Crowley angrily threw his hat and sunglasses onto the table by his apartment door, then proceeded to slam said door as hard as he could without physically breaking it. He then proceeded to stomp into his bedroom. Crowley threw himself onto his bed and let out a muffled, shrill sound of pure frustration into the pillows. After satisfying his inner drama queen, Crowley rolled onto his back, folded his arms, and sulked.

It’s not like he didn’t see Aziraphale’s point- it would be difficult and dangerous to get holy water, even as an angel, without seeming suspicious. Still, considering the number of times Crowley risked his own hide for the bloody angel, he thought he deserved at least one thing in return.

Speaking of saving the angel…

Crowley vaulted himself off his bed and slowly approached his vanity, adjusting the mirror and then taking a deep, shuddering breath. He carefully slid off his gloves, then undid the buttons on his shirt. He stared at himself in the mirror a moment before pulling the shirt to the side. The curtain hiding a particularly hideous actor from the audience of the world.

He traced the mark carefully, as he was wont to do when he got to thinking about Hell and how to defend himself from it. The mark hadn’t changed much since it was first branded into him, the only definitive difference being that the blistering around the area had healed. All that was left now was a dark mark permanently burned into the flesh over his heart.

It still sickened him to look at for too long. But more than that, it made him angry. Angry that Hell had gotten away with this sick stunt in the name of a “punishment”. Honestly, shit like this made them no better than they wankers upstairs. 

He redid his shirt carefully and ensured the mark was properly covered. Then, he slid his gloves back on and returned to the door to don his hat and glasses. He’d find a way to get holy water, no matter if Aziraphale wanted to help him or not. In fact! If Aziraphale kept pulling stunts like this, he didn’t think he ever wanted to speak to him again!

\---

“You know,” Crowley gasped as he pulled away, “I think I told myself I’d never speak to you again at some point.”

“Really? What for?” Aziraphale asked, looking positively delicious with his curls in a wild array and his lips red from kissing. He clearly didn’t expect an answer, because he leaned back down to catch Crowley’s lips again. Crowley let the distraction work for a couple of minutes before they parted again.

“Something about the holy water? I think?” Crowley said in a daze, trying to pull Aziraphale back in. Aziraphale didn’t budge this time, and actually sat up. Which was infuriating, if Crowley was being honest. They hadn’t really gone past snogging on the bookshop couch due to Aziraphale constantly getting sidetracked, which was frustrating as all get out, and Crowley was hoping today would be different. Apparently not.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale in the way he did when he just remembered something important. “I did mean to apologize to you about that whole situation, my dear…”

“Apology accepted. Can we get back to it?” Crowley asked, trying to swoop back in. His lips connected with Aziraphale’s chin, which was not the goal, but also not a loss. Crowley kissed it again, and then began to kiss the rest of Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale chuckled and let him.  
“Could you blame me, though?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley kissed the corner of his lips. “I honestly thought you...I didn’t...I thought I might lose you, and it would have been my fault.”

“I was careful, angel,” Crowley said, pressing a tender kiss to Aziraphale’s hair. 

“I meant- Crowley...I thought you wanted to use it as a suicide pill. Not a weapon.” That gave Crowley pause. He pulled back and met Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Oh, Aziraphale, no. I’d never-” it had crossed his mind, but he wasn’t going to cause Aziraphale more distress thinking about it. “You’re stuck with me for a long time, angel. Hopefully forever.”

Aziraphale smiled at him and pulled him back in to kiss his lips again. It started soft, then returned to its earlier intensity. Finally.

Crowley pulled Aziraphale back down on top of him, and to his surprise Aziraphale’s hands actually trailed just under his shirt. Crowley was delighted right up to the point where Aziraphale began to push the fabric up.

“Wait, wait, what are you doing?” Crowley asked, slightly panicked. Aziraphale blinked down at him owlishly, concern wrinkling his brow.

“Oh, I’m sorry dear! I thought you wanted to…”

“I do!” Crowley corrected quickly, “I just…” he trailed off into a mumble.

“Pardon?”

“I sorta...forgot...that I’d have to take my shirt off.”

“You...forgot…” Aziraphale said slowly.

“It’s- it’s been a long time,” Crowley admitted. Aziraphale smiled fondly and cupped his cheek, pressing their foreheads together gently. The pair breathed together, feeling each other's life pulse under the skin. Aziraphale’s heartbeat like crashing waves, his breath like the water of life.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Aziraphale murmured finally, nosing under his jaw. Crowley let out a soft keen.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, it's just…”

“Yes?”

“I have a...scar...on my chest.” 

That caused Aziraphale to meet his eyes, alarmed. “A scar? Couldn’t you heal it?”

“No it- uh- it’s...Hell put it there. Can’t get rid of it.”

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale said, “I’m so sorry.”

“It-” Crowley’s tongue stuck. He couldn’t say it was fine- it wasn’t- but, “it was a long time ago. I deal with it.”

“Still...may I see?” Aziraphale asked. And Someone, Crowley could never say no to that voice. So he nodded. Aziraphale slowly peeled off his shirt, half to see if Crowley would change his mind and protest, and half because it was just so damn tight.

When the shirt was removed, folded, and set aside, Crowley felt suddenly very naked. It had been a long, long time since he’d been shirtless in front of anyone, and it was the first time someone other than him (and Dagon, he guessed) had seen the mark.

Aziraphale’s bookbinding fingers trailed a gentle, revenant touch over the mark, a frown on his soft lips.

“The leviathan cross?”

“A symbol for Hell,” Crowley said bitterly. “To mark their property…”

An angry expression crossed Aziraphale’s face, his eyes blue fire. “They- how dare they?!” He asked, incredulous, and clearly too angry to say anything else on the matter. The bookshop lights flickered.

“Angel, it- we can’t do anything about it. There’s no reason to get upset about what’s already happened,” Crowley said reasonably, even though deep down he was pleased with the angel’s rage. Still, he’d rather not have the lights blow out over something like this.

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully, his rage retreating, then met Crowley’s gaze. There was an idea living in the lines on his face.

“My dear, may I try something?” Aziraphale asked.

“‘Course, Angel. Whatever you like.”

“Just...let me know if you want me to stop at any point. Promise me,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh? Is it something naughty?” Crowley said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Crowley.” Uh oh, serious voice. Crowley sighed softly.

“Yeah, I promise, Angel.”

“Good,” Aziraphale murmured. He pressed a kiss to Crowley’s jaw, then let his lips trail down to his neck and throat. Crowley groaned as Aziraphale nibbled and sucked at the skin there and let his head fall back. Aziraphale’s hands refused to stay still. They trailed down his sides, to his hips, up his spine, until one finally settled in his hair. Crowley keened as Aziraphale gently pulled and oh, he was right- Aziraphale pulling on his hair was pleasant. Perhaps even more than just pleasant if this situation in Crowley’s trousers was any indication. 

Aziraphale’s revenant lips trailed down from his neck to his shoulder. Then, they moved to his chest. Crowley wasn’t dumb, he could see where this was going. It didn’t stop him from letting out a hitched gasp when the lips trailed across the mark. Crowley writhed against Aziraphale, who tightened his hand in Crowley’s hair just a bit before loosening again. Crowley moved his own hands to Aziraphale’s curls.

Teeth lightly scraped against the darkened skin and Crowley froze, heart pounding. He knew Aziraphale could feel its every beat under his gentle lips as he asked, “May I?”

“Please,” Crowley choked out. Aziraphale kissed the skin again gently, then bit down.  
Pain and pleasure flooded Crowley’s senses, and he let out a rather loud moan as his fingers dug into Aziraphale’s hair, holding him in place. Aziraphale bit down harder, making Crowley feel dizzy. It was totally different from the overwhelming agony of when the mark was first created. It was like his chest was being filled with warmth and light. It was- it was love, Crowley was sure. Even if he could no longer sense it in the air, the feeling pulsing through him was undeniable, like waves lapping against the shore of his heart.

Eventually, Crowley’s grip loosened and Aziraphale carefully removed his teeth and pressed his tongue and lips to the new indents in the skin, hands running soothingly over Crowley’s sides again. Crowley sighed and melted against the couch, feeling relaxed and at ease despite the arousal still coursing through him. Aziraphale moved his mouth back up to Crowley’s and Crowley let the angel kiss him slow and gentle.

“I’m sorry, that was- I bit you harder than I was intending-”

“Was perfect, angel, don’t worry ‘bout it,” Crowley said, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s middle and nuzzling his throat. Aziraphale smiled and returned the embrace, letting his hand return to Crowley’s hair. They lay there in peace for a few moments before Aziraphale- the bastard- tugged on Crowley’s hair again. Crowley let out a rather embarrassing sound.

“So...would you be interested in continuing our earlier activities?” Aziraphale suggested, voice low. Crowley shivered.

“You know it.”

The pair fell into one another once again, crashing like a wave to the shore. And when Crowley would get up to shower the next morning, he would pleasantly surprised to see shimmering, golden indents left in the skin over the branding mark. A permanent way of showing exactly who his heart belonged to.


End file.
